Method
by Davies
Summary: A certain actress intends to meet and interview Lara Croft in preparation for appearing as her in a movie. Things become ... interesting.


You don't quite know why you're so nervous. After all, you've done interviews like this before. When you became Gia, you talked to everyone you could find who'd known her, everyone who could tell you just a little bit about the way she looked and sounded.   
  
Gia herself, of course, was unavailable for interview. You've never become anyone both real and still living ... to say nothing of being one of the most recognizable figures of contemporary popular culture.   
  
But, you quickly remind yourself, that -- the collection of pixels -- is not really her. This is just a courtesy meeting with the person who inspired the fictional character whose equally fictional adventures will be chronicled by your next movie. Hopefully, you'll pick up something that you can use to give your portrayal a bit of verisimilitude. But there's no reason to be nervous --   
  
And then there's a sudden stillness at the entrance to the dining area, and you turn to look over your shoulder, and there she is.   
  
She's wearing trousers and an off-white jacket over a beige blouse, not tight shorts and a tank top, and the familiar shades are nowhere to be seen. She's not carrying -- or is she? there's a small bundle under her left shoulder, and you know she's ambidextrous -- but the way she scans the room as the maitre'd leads her to your table, you know she's ready. Her hair is pulled back into a long, tight braid down her back.   
  
Oh are you nervous.   
  
"Miss Croft," he says. No introduction for you. You're famous in a sphere that he knows about, so he doesn't need to introduce you. Twerp.   
  
"Pleasure to meet you," she says as he pulls out the chair and she sits down. Doesn't really have a heavy English accent, a part of your mind notes; mother was American, partially educated in the States. Doesn't say "Loved you in" some movie. Orders.   
  
"Yes, I'm very glad we could meet like this," you say, sounding surprisingly calm.   
  
She nods, watching you.   
  
"I've got a lot of questions I'd like to ask, about you and ... well, about the character."   
  
"I don't really know a lot about the character," she replies abruptly. You sense a rehearsed answer. "I don't play the games."   
  
"I suppose that's understandable. They'd probably be ... something of a let-down after the reality?" It's a question, not a statement.   
  
She smiles. With astounding synchronicity, her drink arrives, and she accentuates the smile by sipping the brandy.   
  
There's a feeling of stillness about her, a real sense that she doesn't need to explain or justify herself to anyone. Especially not you. You're honest enough to admit that this is something you want for yourself even as it nettles you.   
  
"They are fictional, of course." It's an assertion, not a question.   
  
"By and large, they're ... exaggerations of things that I've experienced. Bowlderizations, one might've called them, once upon a time." Sip.   
  
You lean forward. "So why do you do it?"   
  
"Every gel needs a hob--" she begins, another rehearsed answer.   
  
"Not the archaeology," you interrupt. "Not the expeditions. Why do you let a bunch of overgrown teenagers create ridiculous fantasies from the events of your life for the entertainment of their undergrown brethren?"   
  
She sets down her drink, never breaking eye contact with you. You get the feeling that you've gotten through her armor of self-assurance and challenged her for the first time, and you're not sure that's such a good thing, now that it's done. "Do you know how much money was spent making that Jurassic Park movie?"   
  
"Not off-hand, no."   
  
"Millions. Millions more than has ever been spent on any paleontology department or expedition, ever. But you ask any paleontologist what she thinks of the movie, she'll tell you: great advertising for the next generation. "If one of the pimply-faced twerps busily searching the network for nude pictures of `me' grows up to take a real interest in archaeology because of the games, or because of your little contribution ... then I've given something back."   
  
You sip your water, now. It's not magnaminity as much as it's surprise. "So some things do matter to you, I take it."   
  
She shoves her chair back. "Screw this."   
  
You open your mouth to apologize (maybe) or --   
  
"No. I'm not angry," she informs you. "But this is a waste of both our time, sitting here. You're not going to get what you want just talking to me. It's not my words that people care about. It's what I do." Pause, and you get the feeling that she's evaluating you -- to her satisfaction. "If you want to make the character more like me ... then come with me."   
  
In the next few hours you learn:  
  
* She drives too fast.  
  
* She likes classical music more than rock.  
  
* She shows off. (At the rock climbing centre, while on the extreme face without a harness, she ignores the instructor to do a little step off the rocks that should send her falling thirty feet to break her neck but instead gets her up to the top. When you ask if she did that to show off, she replies, "Why else?"  
  
* She likes New York and London, can't stand Los Angeles and Vienna.  
  
* She reads Iain Banks. (Someone named Torvingen recommended one of his novels to her, and she regards it as an embarassment that "a transplanted Yank" had to point her at one her own country's authors.)  
  
* She had what she calls a pash for Diana Rigg, and thinks Uma Thurman should be shot.  
  
* She doesn't know how much she gives away.  
  
* She thinks she's stronger than she really is.  
  
* She really is very strong.  
  
* You want to fuck her.  
  
* This doesn't surprise her.  
  
"Your husband won't mind?" she asks, after you've already tumbled into the bedroom of your temporary suite and onto the bed.   
  
"He won't believe," you reply.   
  
Neither of you talk for a while.   
  
You also find out that she's very good at this. Too.   
  
You're alone when you wake up. Not surprising. You're not, after all, the love of her life.   
  
Pretty good fuck, though.   
  
There's a folded card on the nightstand. You get up and enjoy stretching for a moment before you pick it up and read it.   
  
The other reason, it states, is that they're all completely true. Lara, it's signed.   
  
You can't wait to start filming. 


End file.
